Kaelen Myrvalis did not like perfect numbers. Perfect numbers were a lie told by men who thought the Ministry of Whispers didn't know how to do math.
He sat at his desk in the deep archives of the Ministry, the only light coming from a small, shielded aether-lamp. He was approaching eighty years old. His hair was entirely white, his skin papery, but his eyes were exactly the same as they had been the day he took over the intelligence apparatus: flat, dark, and utterly devoid of sentiment.
For the past three years, the Dominion's intelligence focus had been overwhelmingly external—monitoring the northern ceasefire, assessing the Arbiter's new Leviathan, managing the Kesseth transition. With the borders finally locked in a cold, tense peace, Kaelen was turning his gaze inward.
He had ordered a thorough audit of the internal industrial sectors. He was currently reviewing the historical output ledgers for the Halvern factory district.
